


it just took me a while 'til I knew

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, feeling analysis, its just romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a journey through the evolving feelings of an angel





	it just took me a while 'til I knew

**Author's Note:**

> this is for mr. sheen, love your work

It was not love at first sight. 

And even though it hadn’t been love at first sight, Aziraphale had always been drawn to Crowley, the wily and witty demon who always had the right words. Crowley had been so curious and friendly then, not at all like he’d been told demons were like. Aziraphale hadn’t felt appalled by him like he ought to, didn’t feel naturally repelled, he felt drawn in. Maybe that’s why he did the ridiculous that day, when he offered his wing as shelter to the demon. Even now he doesn’t quite understand why he had done that, but he knows he doesn’t regret it. He doubts Crowley even remembers it anyway.

It hadn’t been love at second sight either. It didn’t become love for a very long time. It wasn’t until the night in the church. And even then Aziraphale didn’t understand. He just knew there was a shift in everything, he felt it. He felt it every time he was with Crowley afterwards. It was like his breath was suspended, a sun expanding in his chest, velvet under fingertips, violins playing. It was a collection of sensations, all good, but when all happening at once, overwhelming. It was like having two flutes of champagne, an odd giddiness building up with no discernible reason other than Crowley. When Crowley said his name or called him angel, it was better than- it was better than going to the Ritz or finding a rare book just when one was about to resign themselves to a life without it.

Aziraphale didn’t realize he was in love with Crowley until some time later. When they were faced with the apocalypse, and Aziraphale knew that _this_ could not go on. They were enemies now. They might see each other on the battlefield, they might have to _kill_ each other. Goodness, what had they’d done? They’d known, in the end, they’d be enemies. They knew, and then they had decided to become friendly anyway. And Aziraphale hadn’t even really decided that, it had just seemingly happened. Aziraphale had even tried to keep his guard up, but somehow Crowley had begun to occupy a part of his heart. And somehow Crowley occupied a large part of his heart. He hadn’t even noticed. He wondered when it all started, but he knew where it ended. It ended when Crowley left, walking out of the bandstand, and out of his heart. And some part of Aziraphale had never been prepared for that image: Crowley walking away, hurt all over his face, and the idea that he may never see Crowley again; may never be saved by Crowley again, never grab a bite to eat, never jest.  _(who did he have now?)_ The end of everything, the end of everything. And it was with this, the emptiness which echoed within as Crowley disappeared out of sight, that Aziraphale knew he was in love. It was with this, Aziraphale understood the poets. It was with this, Aziraphale thought the words for the first time: I love him _._

Or he thought he knew where it ended, but Crowley came again, outside his book store. Frantic and desperate and, most importantly, there, in front of Aziraphale, a friend still. Despite being turned away, Crowley came back, apologizing, inviting him to the stars, offering what could never be. Aziraphale had convinced himself that what he’d done was right, his brain came to a halt when Crowley was there, bright and beautiful as ever. What Aziraphale wanted to say was:  _ I’m sorry.  _ What Aziraphale said was:  _ I forgive you _ .  He punctured the words with emphasis, hoping that Crowley understood all the unspoken words, the unsaid sentiment.

And then he found Crowley, when he could find no other familiar face, when he could not even roam the world freely; he found him. His soul found Crowley, drunk and tired and mourning, and his own heart ache. He knew for sure then, that this meant they were tied together, their destinies. He had been unable to find his beloved bookstore, but he’d found Crowley. A moth to a flame.

Then Crowley did the unthinkable, something only Crowley could have done, he stopped Armageddon. In a manner of speaking, of course, and he’d done it because Aziraphale had said he’d never speak to him again. That had to be worth something, didn’t it? Or maybe Crowley’s brilliance had just struck at a time of coincidence, and it meant nothing. Aziraphale’s heart lingered on the possibility, that maybe it meant something. And at night, when he was alone, he let it warm his heart.

It has been eleven months since they narrowly avoided Armageddon. For immortals, that’s a blink of the eye. Aziraphale has spent his days, more or less, with Crowley. It’s all terribly domestic, and it fills Aziraphale with such conflicting emotions. He loves it but it’s also killing him. His love is bursting out of his seams, he’s a changed man. He’s listened to The Velvet Underground for God’s sake! And even though he didn’t like it, it made him smile because he thought of Crowley. They talk about history and their own memories, they talk about what they think is heavenly and hellish in origin. They laugh a lot.

They’re sitting in his bookshop when it happens, Crowley is lounging on a couch as Aziraphale reads aloud to him. That had become a habit of theirs, it’s peaceful  _ (once  Crowley listened to him read Paradise Lost with a wide, lopsided smile, and Aziraphale scorned him playfully about how it was a serious work, but he continued to read for hours upon hours).  _ Aziraphale has chosen to read a collection of T.S. Elliot today, a first edition. But it’s when he takes a break that he snaps.

“Crowley?” His voice makes Crowley open his eyes lazily, the demon tilts his head as if to say ‘go on’ and offers a noise to show he’s listening. “Do you think you could love me?”

And Crowley looked at him for a second like he was an alien, and the silence crawls under his skin, makes him fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve. And then Crowley’s agape mouth finally says, “yes.” Nothing more and nothing less.

“Yes?” His voice is filled with hope, distant even to his own ears. He hadn’t planned on asking, he just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Crowley stands up in a clumsy motion of action. 

“Yes. I think I could!” A small pause. “I do.”

“You do?”

“Of course.” It seemed Aziraphale’s head couldn’t comprehend it as he responded with:

“Crowley! Stop joking.” He looked scandalized, and Aziraphale’s smile turned softer as he brought a hand up to caress Aziraphale’s face.

 Crowley’s image of Aziraphale has been biased since day one. That’s what love does. But he’s pretty sure that there’s no one else like Aziraphale. He was kind and compassionate and a tad too stubborn. He was warm and a bit of a snob. He is what love is to Crowley. He didn’t care in what way they stayed together as long as they did stay together, as long as he was close to Aziraphale. He didn't care about being Icarus, he’d gotten his heart broken by Aziraphale multiple times, and after each time, Aziraphale had been the one to mend it. He’d been fine with just being in Aziraphale’s proximity, but now that wasn’t enough.

“I’m not joking, Angel. What must I do to prove my heart to you?” Aziraphale wasn’t smiling, but he looked down, thinking.

“I didn’t know you were such a poet.” The answer was not an answer at all, his voice still had that quiet element, he looked up, finally, into Crowley’s face, a small smile taking on his own face.

“I know, you’re a bad influence on me.”

  
  



End file.
